A/N: ONE MORE MONTH GUYS. Season nine is gonna be fine.

Thanks to Mikey for filling in as beta and for all of you who've stuck with me up to this point. This should be the last bit of "set-up". More action next chapter, I promise!

The stars gazed down coldly on the sleek black car as it tore down the vacant country road, its engine growling low.

Dean let the night air slip past him in a cooling stream, calming the heat that had been coursing through his veins.

A decade's worth of buried emotion was beginning to bleed through the gaping holes that had been blown open in the encounter. He'd never allowed himself to fully grieve losing Cas- He made the deal and moved on, let the hunt consume him again. Went back to being a good little soldier.

John would smile and roll his eyes in mock exasperation with every waitress Dean winked at and after each phone number he'd collect from some sultry-eyed broad in a bar.

I just want you to be happy, alright? His thirteen year old brother's voice echoed through the years, recalling him back to when he was seventeen and scared, unwilling to admit that the boy with the blue eyes had stolen his heart.

They were men now, strangers. A gulf had been rent open between them, with Heaven on one side and Earth on the other. The chasm that spanned time and space, separating the human and the divine since the beginning of creation was gone; vanished in a single touch. One that was seared into his flesh. A mark of their collective shame.

Hell still burnt hot and sour at the back of his throat, confined to nightmares and the space in the corner of his eye, just out of sight. He could feel it lurking there. A shadow, the flash of a razor. As long as he didn't focus, didn't think, didn't examine the creeping dread, he was safe. There was a feeling deep inside his gut that writhed and twisted away from those memories. They would swallow him whole.

God, Sammy. Where the hell are you? I'm tail spinning, man. Need someone to get my head out of my ass again.

He hated himself for thinking about Sam in the past tense. Dean knew that was a slippery slope towards acceptance, and he wasn't about to give up just yet. If I escaped, we can spring you too. Just hang in there.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for just a second. In the darkness behind his lids, the rumble of the Impala's engine intensified, the soft rocking motion of the car as it began to drift slightly. If he kept his eyes closed the trajectory would continue until his baby found a nice ditch to lie in or a tree to embrace.

The engine whined as if in protest, and chill rippled down Dean's spine. He pried his eyes open, biting back a yelp when he noticed John Winchester's ghostly form in the rearview mirror. He had a hand draped casually over the backseat. His posture was relaxed but the expression on his face was turbulent and unreadable.

How much did he see?

Dean's insides froze into a cold, hard lump. He was weak, pathetic. About to pussy out right when the action was at its peak. Mooning over another guy.

He swallowed down the bile that was quickly rising in his throat, grunting out an acknowledgment of his father's presence.

John tilted his chin up. "Looks like you've got the devil on your tail boy. What in hell are you running from?" His tone was mild but there was an undercurrent of menace in it.

Ohshitohshit he knows.

Dean tried his best to shrug, but his shoulders were wound up so tight that it looked more like a muscle spasm. "Just… a lot going on right now. Thought I'd clear my head."

"I bet."

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Dean clenched the steering wheel even tighter, his knuckles popping in protest.

John continued, "Azazel's plotting something big. Word in the spirit world is that he's been coming topside."

"What could he possibly want up here?" Dean spat. He already has-" he couldn't make himself say Sam.

"Doesn't matter. We can trap him and kill him. Make him pay for what he did to our family. That's still the objective, you understand?" The radio flicked on in response to the uptick in energy. A talk show host droned on about the economy. John's voice was low and deadly. "You're brother's changing Dean, even as we speak."

Changing how? The question hovered on his lips, but the answer could condemn him. John clenching his fist, adding his little brother to the list of reasons Azazel had to be destroyed, deeming him another lost cause in a long line of Winchester failures.

He called him dangerous.

His own father, losing faith.

It was my job to protect him in the first place and I couldn't even do that.

"We'll figure something out," Dean blustered. "You never gave Sam enough credit; that's one of the reasons he ran off to Stanford in the first place. Whatever they're doing to him down there, he can handle it." But for how long? "As for Azazel- what exactly are we supposed to do that? He's managed to avoid us for over twenty years. The Hell makes you think he'll just show up on our doorstep? Maybe if we spend our time trying to rescue Sam-"

"I know about the angel."

Dean slammed on the breaks, the squealing tires echoing the wheels turning in his head. The air was forced out of his lungs and they couldn't quite re-inflate.

It's not what you think it is.

What angel?

I didn't think you'd find out.

I'm sorry I'm not the son you want me to be.

John was gone from the backseat. Apparently the sudden shift in momentum had interrupted the focus he needed to maintain contact with the living world.

Dean took a moment to wipe the cold sweat from his face and regain control over his limbs. His hands were shaking so badly he could barely extract the emergency flask from the glove compartment. He swore as the amber liquid slopped down his front.

"…The demons would love that… bait-" John's voice was muzzy and distorted by the veil once again. Dean realized how much stronger his father's spirit must have gotten since their last encounter.

"Are you listening to me? Gotta go… Stop it! The heavenly host… powers. We can use -" His words dissolved into clicks and hisses.

And with that, Dean was alone.

Perhaps it wasn't fair, leaving him in the dark like that, but John Winchester had always operated on a need to know basis. The demon, for example. He'd figured that out a few months after Mary died, but hunting a nameless, faceless monster helped keep his boys in line. Kept them closer to him until they were ready for the big reveal. Besides, Dean was cracking and the knowledge that his treasured younger brother was destined to be Lucifer Incarnate wouldn't help matters.

Meg had told him about the demon blood, whispered it gleefully into his ear when she'd captured him in Lincoln.

And again, during his century in hell, Alistair would wax poetic about the preparations being made for the new King.

Sam, the wayward son. Always willful and curious, stubborn as he was but perhaps without the hard-ass exterior. Sam was the brittle child, lacking Dean's easygoing charm, taking everything so seriously.

Once upon a time, John would have raged and stormed, moved heaven and earth to save him. Maybe it was his time in hell, maybe ghosts stopped feeling human emotions just like they stopped feeling their bodies, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Azazel was all that mattered, the only thing that caused anger to bloom in his gut like and unholy flower.

Guarding Sam was Dean's duty. Always had been.